


Kahwatsire

by manic_intent



Series: Kawatsire [1]
Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: But the only bad thoughts I had during the game were during Those sequences, Fingerfucking, I blame Twitter, I'm so sorry Connor, Incest, M/M, Slash, Spoilers, Virginity, holy shit why did I write this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-06
Updated: 2012-11-06
Packaged: 2017-11-18 02:30:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/555892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/manic_intent/pseuds/manic_intent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[FULL SPOILERS for AC3] Written for @typhlotictiger and @moleculemonster on twitter, following browsing of prompts on the kmeme: "Connor, for all his badassery on the battlefield, is a blushing, awkward, innocent virgin in bed. Haytham sets out to teach him."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kahwatsire

**Author's Note:**

> I'm going to hell for this. Usually, incest squicks me, but after the Father/Son missions - good god ubisoft why
> 
> For those lovely readers who read whatever I ramble about regardless of fandom, here's some context:  
> http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VfFfxQUG6w0 skip to 2:47 ;3

I.

Connor's first impression upon groping up into a dim semblance of consciousness was that maybe the old pastor was right after all, him and his Faith, and Hell existed.

His body felt sluggish and numb and his tongue seemed raspy and thick; it seemed to take an age for his vision to focus out of a blur, and when he could finally see, he found himself looking right up into his father's face.

Definitely Hell.

At his startled intake of breath, Haytham straightened up, folding his hands behind his back. "Ah, excellent. So you live. I was beginning to think that I had wasted all that time and energy."

Connor stared, blinking, as Haytham padded away to a desk set up against a window in the richly furnished room, settling himself into an ornately carved chair and pulling up a book. The Templar Grandmaster was dressed far more informally than Connor was used to, in a white sleeved shirt with a high collar, breeches and buckled shoes, no hat over his greying hair - it made him look less imposing. Older. A little wrong, somehow. Frowning, Connor tried to sit up, gritting his teeth, but could only let out a pained gasp as his arms refused to obey him. 

"Try to rest," Haytham didn't even bother to look over at him. "Count yourself lucky that you've only suffered relatively minor injuries, an infection and a fever over your startlingly ill-advised plan to bombard a fort with yourself still within it." 

Connor had, in fact, considered that his plan had possibly been as ' _lunatique_ ' as the French captain had previously described it, around the point when a cannonball had smashed through the tower he had been climbing up and the rock and mortar had come down over him. Still, he wasn't about to give Haytham the satisfaction of agreeing with him, so he croaked, "Lee?"

"I find myself uncertain as to whether your _refreshing_ degree of utter single-mindedness is part of your normally _delightful_ personality or a result of one too many cannonballs to the head," Haytham stated tartly, as he turned a page in his ledger and picked up a quill. "Even were you in any position as you are now to pick up a knife without stabbing yourself with it, Charles has been safely out of your purview the moment the first fake British ship sailed within sight of the fort."

Outmanoeuvred, then. Connor found that he wasn't entirely surprised, after all. Haytham was as cunning as an old vixen, and just as vicious when cornered. "Why did you save me?"

"Curiosity," Haytham glanced up then, and Connor couldn't quite decide if the twist to his mouth was mocking. "You behave rather like an overgrown wolf pup. It has been _rather_ amusing watching you bumble about mauling everything within reach. Dear Achilles must be _so_ very frustrated. Too lame to keep up with you, too old to control you."

"He does not control me."

"Not out of lack of trying, I suspect," Haytham flicked his eyes back toward his book.

"He is old and set in his ways," Connor muttered, then guilt prodded pointedly at his conscience until he added, conscientiously, "But he is a good man. Unlike others of my recent acquaintance."

"Oh, very _good_. The wolf pup's bark is starting to show a little _bite_. Still, I suppose the fact that you haven't been indoctrinated by his - and the Order's - current mindset indicates more than the set of your eyes that you're of my blood." Long fingers tapped a rhythm briefly on the mahogany desk. "I was younger than you when I gave my minders the slip."

"Why did you leave?"

"The tale's long in the telling and you should be resting." Haytham decided, after a pause, and try as Connor might until his throat grew too raw, his father ignored him for the rest of the night.

1.0.

Charles had been openly resentful when he returned to the fort to find Haytham overseeing the transportation of Connor's unconscious body to his personal villa in New York, but he made no verbal comment. Still, Haytham had to admit that he hadn't been quite sure what had driven him to have Connor dug out from the rubble and patched up; the boy clearly had his mother's inflexible resolve and - dare he say - his father's talent for blade work, if still painfully raw by way of training. Either Davenport's limp had severely impacted his ability as a teacher, or the old assassin's reputation had been embellished over time.

Still, Connor was already a considerable thorn in Haytham's side - the boy had through some miraculous combination of insane luck and equally insane bullheadedness destabilized years of templar infrastructure in the colonies, and given time, given training, he would be a very dangerous man indeed. Logically, Haytham should have put a bullet through Connor's head the moment he had realized that the boy was still breathing, and it was only pure sentiment that had stayed his hand. The same sentiment that had caused him to dally days with Connor's mother instead of devoting time to strategising. The wild frontier was beautiful in its own way, as were its wild people, and occasionally, Haytham considered their increasing disappearance with mild regret. 

Besides, he had never had a son before - had never even considered the prospect of children, or family, even after escaping the Assassin commune, and the situation with Connor was... curious. Unsettling. And if Haytham had to admit it: rather exhilarating. Perhaps this was why people strove to pair up and have hordes of the blasted squalling things - when they grew up past the bedwetting stage, they could be so very interesting. It was almost like a form of narcissism, in a way, admiring the exploits of the accidental fruits of a very brief union, something gratifying in how even Charles had taken to remarking on Connor's increasingly unbelievable exploits with grudging respect, calling Connor 'your son' rather than 'that Assassin boy'.

So he had installed Connor in a guest room at his villa, spent a rather large sum on a good doctor, and had waited. 

And in any regard, Haytham told himself, he could always end Connor's life whenever his curiosity grew dim.

II.

"Why did you leave the Order?" Connor took to asking Haytham whenever his father deigned to show his face.

There was something childish about it, he had to admit - Haytham always frowned and snapped something at him - but he found that he did truly wish to know. Of late, Connor had learned the hard way that even people he did favours for were not always to be trusted. What more a Creed that he had not been born to? 

Today, Haytham seemed tired; Connor hadn't seen him for almost a week, and Haytham's housekeeping staff were closemouthed. His strength was returning slowly, but wherever they were, they had to be either well-hidden, if he hadn't yet been rescued or - or perhaps - Achilles and the others thought him dead, and had stopped searching. It wasn't a pleasant prospect to contemplate. "This again, Connor?"

"I want to know," Connor stated stubbornly. 

Normally, this was Haytham's cue to snap something dry and sarcastic about Connor's ability at small talk, but today, he wavered visibly, then he pulled up the chair at the desk and settled himself into it, a little gingerly. "Old wounds," he explained blandly, when Connor blinked at him. "You'll be just the same when you reach my age, and the weather grows cold."

"The Clan Mother has salves for the elderly," Connor drawled, unable to help himself, "And she usually also prescribes a daily exercise routine." 

Haytham arched an eyebrow. "You could barely keep up with me over the rooftops, boy."

"I did that on _purpose_ ," Connor growled, nettled, "I was meant to _follow_ you. If we were racing, it would have gone differently, old man."

"Certainly," Haytham drawled, patronizing as ever, again with that annoying smirk, then he seemed to sober. "As to your question. I left because I no longer agreed with its dictates."

"What about your father? Your mother?"

Haytham's laugh was a sharp bark. "My dear boy, what _did_ you think that growing up as an Assassin was like? Sunshine and puppies and fresh air? We live in communes, child, separated from our parents the moment we're weaned and trained to be good little soldiers. To develop love and loyalty to the Creed over anything else. Closely watched by our minders at all times. Particularly the occasional rare child born like us, with the gift of second sight. We're their special little weapons."

The bitterness in Haytham's tone was startling, and Achilles had never mentioned this. Connor found himself saying, without thinking about it, "That is a cruel way to grow up."

"Indeed. And suitable, for the Order's purposes. After all, they are rather more interested in forging weapons than bringing up children to be healthy and balanced. As I mentioned," Haytham added sharply, when Connor opened his mouth, "The Order once had a good goal. Peace. Now, it only desires chaos."

"Freedom is not chaos."

"Is it not?" Haytham asked mockingly, "Men who are not bound by law or fear of retribution turn into animals. I should know - I have seen it. They'll rape, murder and pillage. As a species, we need order. We need laws. Or our civilisation as it is collapses."

"Orders and laws to be dictated by the Templars, forced onto other people?"

"Small difference from orders and laws dictated by a handful of men, and forced onto a greater group of people," Haytham shrugged. "That is how civilisation operates." 

Connor sneered. "And you'll put those who do not conform to the sword? Is that 'civilised'?"

"Oh, try not to be disagreeable when I am actually in a mood to answer your infernal questions, child." 

Irritated, but heeding the warning tone in Haytham's voice, Connor swallowed his retort. "This 'second sight' - I thought all Assassins had the ability." 

"Many have some degree of it. The ability to sense on an instinctive level whether someone else is a threat or an ally, certainly. But the ability to change sight itself is rare, and hereditary, and the ability to move while doing so, and use it with impunity, far rarer still. As I said," Haytham noted thinly, "Their special little weapons."

"Why go to the Templars, then? If you desired peace, why not seek that yourself? Form another faction?" Connor suggested impulsively. 

"I needed their resources. Did you think that the Order would have let me leave so easily? And besides, as I have mentioned to you, the Templars' goals and mine are the same. Peace, through order." Haytham stifled a yawn, glancing at the window as though checking the colour of the night sky. "Think, boy. You cannot have peace through anarchy. It must be one or the other."

"Is slavery order, then? Or driving out the Iroquois from their ancestral land?"

"The former is an unfortunate evil that I think will eventually pass," Haytham noted, sounding disinterested, "There were members of the so-called 'slave-race' in the commune, and they were as deadly as any other. As to the latter, I had plans. Plans that you wilfully destroyed."

"They were not good plans."

"And yours are any better? Think _practically_ , boy. If your people had forts, muskets and war machines, perhaps they could put forward a very real argument to be left alone. Certainly, you've caused a fair amount of havoc by yourself, but you cannot be everywhere. Your path is a doomed one."

"So my people should just give in? Leave?"

"That depends," Haytham looked distant for a moment, thoughtful. "Are you interested in saving just your village? Or the entirety of the Iroquois nation, plus their hunting grounds?"

Connor eyed Haytham suspiciously. "Why do you care?"

"Don't be disagreeable, boy."

"I want everyone to be free," Connor decided, and when Haytham started to shake his head, added defiantly, "But I want to start with my village."

"And would you be content if your village was left alone?" 

"It would be a start," Connor said doubtfully, "But I do not know if I would be able to stand by and watch the others burn."

"Sometimes you have to learn to choose between saving what you can or trying to save everything and seeing it all burn, child."

2.0.

Connor was recuperating nicely: clearly there was something equally stubborn and bullheaded about his constitution, and the doctor was confident that he would make a full recovery. Haytham had expected Connor to take his leave the moment he could walk, to head back to his quaint little homestead and lick his wounds there, and to his surprise the boy lingered, instead, seemingly focused on exploring the villa and/or annoying its master.

At the end of another week Connor was nearly back at full strength and Haytham was seriously contemplating issuing an order to get rid of Davenport - the damage that the old man had clearly done by instituting dangerous ideals in an impressionable young native child was possibly irreparable. For such a big man who had seen and caused so much death and destruction, Connor was painfully naive and eternally surprised by humanity's capacity at mendacity and treachery.

On the other hand, Haytham supposed that Connor's very naivety provided him with a window in and of itself: despite Connor's stubborn and contrary nature and his sad lack of basic social graces the boy seemed to want... reconciliation. He certainly obeyed orders well enough, even if he was defiant, and all that raw promise could be useful if channelled properly. 

Haytham would just have to be more subtle about it all - he rather regretted, on hindsight, indulging his penchant for the dramatic with the Washington matter. Connor hadn't reacted well - and why would he: like the wolf pup that he was, wounded and angry, Haytham should have known that the boy would just lash out and maul everything within reach - and at the end, Haytham had regretted his botched handling. 

Now he had another chance, and he had learned.

III.

"There are perfectly good chairs in the house," Haytham complained, when he came to a stop next to Connor on the rooftop of the villa mansion, "Besides, think of the neighbors. Mrs Maxwell over across the road may have quite a fright."

"I like nights like these," Connor retorted, looking up at the cloudless dark sky with its painted points of light. "See that - that is _Nyah-gwaheh_ , the Great Bear. Now that it is nearly time for winter, the hunters are closing in." At Haytham's arched eyebrow, Connor added, mulishly, "My mother told me the story."

"Ah." Haytham blinked, and the twist to his mouth faded. Instead, to Connor's surprise, his father sat down carefully on the slate roof beside him. "Tell me the story, then." 

To Connor's additional surprise, he found himself doing so, self-consciously at first, then with a little more confidence, describing the hunt of the Great Bear by the three hunters and their chase into the sky and eternity itself. Haytham listened without comment, his hands folded in his lap, until the end, when he noted, neutrally, "It is a good tale."

Wondering whether or not to take offence, Connor muttered, "Your own stories are not so colourful, and full of death." At Haytham's tilted head, Connor explained, "The pastor at the homestead asked me to read his special book."

"And you did?"

"He asked me to," Connor pointed out, a little testily. "It took me a few days."

Haytham was smiling now, faintly, "And what did you tell him?"

"That I preferred our stories."

"No doubt," Haytham chuckled, "I would have liked to see his face."

"He was not angry," Connor said, puzzled, "But he said that I was the first person he had ever convinced to read the book from cover to cover. It is not a bad story," Connor added irritably, as Haytham started to laugh again, "I liked the one at the start about the big garden and the trees... why are you laughing?"

"I do apologize," Haytham was making a visible effort to calm down, though his lips still twitched occasionally. "But you may wish to keep that opinion to yourself in the future. Some people take offence very easily."

"Achilles said so as well." Other races could be so strange.

"Speaking of Davenport, he couldn't have taught you to climb, not with his bad leg. Did your mother teach you?"

"Everyone learns how to climb in the village," Connor corrected, then he added, with a little pride, "But she was very good at it. Better than some of the men."

"That she was," Haytham noted quietly, and there was sadness there, Connor noted, with a blink, as Haytham glanced down at the street, and he exhaled.

"That day, with Washington. I was angry." 

"Rightfully so."

"You didn't know about the attack, did you? When it happened?" Connor asked impulsively. "You were surprised that my mother was dead." 

"When it happened? Certainly not. At the very least, I would have tried to warn her. I do not expect you to believe me," Haytham shrugged, "It's an empty sentiment, in any regard. We cannot change the past."

"But when did you find out?"

"Only a few days before I met you at the encampment. I had a man look up the records after you accused me of issuing an order that I had not. It took quite a lot of legwork. Official records are surprisingly scant on details with regards to the burning of native villages full of women and children," Haytham's tone turned a shade colder. "Did I know that Washington was issuing another order? Yes I did. On your village in particular? No. I thought simply to catch him in the act and present the evidence to you." 

"Charles Lee still went to my village and tried to get the men to start a skirmish."

"Miscommunication. Charles has ever been... eager in his duties. On occasion, far too much so. I have spoken with him. I am not interested in your village, Connor. My resources are better used elsewhere."

"Your 'miscommunication' caused the death of my friend!"

"By your hand," Haytham shot back flatly, and at Connor's blink, curled his lip, "Of course I knew of it, boy. And a poor Assassin you are if you know not how to incapacitate a man instead of killing him. You wield your blades with no finesse and no direction, relying on savagery and brute strength to carry you through."

"And you could do better?"

"Certainly." Haytham sniffed. "And I could teach you."

Connor hastily swallowed his angry retort, instantly curious. "Why would you?"

"Because watching the misuse of all that raw talent is rather painful, and because I think that I owe it to your mother," Haytham grimaced. "I do recognise that I have a responsibility."

Connor mulled this over, fiddling with his fingers as he did so, pulling at his sleeve. Achilles' old wounds had taken greater and greater tolls on him as he aged - on some days he was unable to even get out of bed, let alone attend to Connor's training. And as much as Connor had some doubts about Haytham's abilities as an assassin - the man had gotten himself caught by Frontier mercenaries, after all - his skill with the blade during battle was possibly better than Achilles'. 

"Fine," Connor decided. "Now?"

"Not _now_. Recover. Go and check on your homestead. Run around the wilderness and howl at the moon or whatever it is that you do in your spare time. Look for me again here when you are ready." 

Connor bared his teeth, but forced himself to swallow another retort. At Haytham's smirk, it was obvious that his father was all too aware of it. "And you'll just let me leave?"

"You're not a prisoner here, boy. God forbid. Besides, you eat far more than even a man of your size should and my housekeeper informs me that it's becoming a struggle to keep the larder well-stocked."

"Oh." Connor blinked. "Sorry."

3.0.

It took a little more than half a month before Connor finally returned to the villa, liberally muddy and grass stained, much to the despair of the housekeeper as he tracked travel dust all over the rugs, carrying some sort of grubby blue blanket that he insisted on rolling out on the floor of the guest room instead of using a perfectly decent bed. Haytham had refitted the large and usually empty wine cellar of the villa to fit its new purposes, and as much as this particular idea had originally been born out of a grand picture to get the problem of Connor under control he had found himself looking forward to it.

And, as it turned out, at least when he was trying to learn something, Connor was an entirely different person. Gone was the defiance and the occasional bursts of ill nature; in its place leaving an impressionable student who was quick to learn and - gratifyingly - eager to please. Haytham concentrated on improving Connor's footwork: not a difficult task with all that natural balance and grace, but Connor seemed to react well to praise. Davenport must have been a most cantankerous taskmaster.

It kept Connor out from underfoot, at least for now, while Haytham worked on reinstating Charles out of disgrace. Charles was even less approving of Haytham's latest venture, but he recognised the logic of it, at the least.

Although, if Haytham had to admit it, logic wasn't entirely the driving force behind this particular idea. After all, it did carry a large amount of risk - that Connor would turn against him anyway and use his new skills to deadlier efficiency - and normally, Haytham would have calculated against it. Sentiment was a dangerous creature, and besides, in the quiet dark of his soul Haytham recognised the same wildness in Connor that his mother had which had attracted him, the same feral grace, and the Father of Understanding had never denied Haytham anything that he had truly wanted.

IV.

Achilles had warned him to be wary of Haytham when he had left, but even the old Assassin had to concede that Connor's training needed work that Achilles' disability and age prevented him from progressing.

Training with Haytham was easier than Connor had expected. Haytham was surprisingly patient, and he was almost businesslike in approach, offering only constructive criticism with none of his usual sarcasm, or the occasional rare touch of praise. He answered any questions conclusively that Achilles would have simply brushed off, and more importantly, Connor felt that he _was_ improving. At least in training, Haytham had a seemingly endless patience for the hows and whys of things that Achilles had either skipped over or ignored. 

The day that Haytham had finally decided that Connor's footwork was 'fair enough - for now' he had abruptly decided to celebrate, producing whisky and a pair of glasses. Connor had eyed the drink dubiously but had accepted, if only to be polite, and they sat together on the small wooden table and chairs set in the corner of the large cellar. The first sip made him cough, and Haytham laughed. 

"Haven't you drunk before, boy?"

"I have," Connor growled, "But I am not fond of it."

"Ah, well, 'tis an acquired taste." Haytham raised his glass to him before drinking, and irritated by the patronisation, Connor forced himself to drink it all down. The whisky burned all the way down his throat, and he nearly started coughing again, but he merely gasped and wiped his mouth and put the glass back down on the table, feeling accomplished. 

"Slow down, Connor. That's a good bottle of whisky. It doesn't deserve to be swilled like the rubbish that they sell at the taverns."

"I do not taste the difference," Connor muttered defiantly, but Haytham merely shook his head and took another sip. Whatever it was, it was stronger than the ale and spirits that Connor had tried in the tavern at Homestead on Big Dave's urging; he felt pleasantly lightheaded. 

Haytham seemed to sense this as well - he swiped the bottle away when Connor reached for it. "I think you've had enough."

Irritated, Connor snapped, "I know when to stop. Let me decide that." A second grab missed, and when Connor got to his feet to improve his reach, he stumbled. In an instant, he found himself pinned against the stone wall, bottle and glasses back on the table, and Haytham was smirking, right in his face.

"Lightweight."

"I am not drunk!"

"No, not yet. But soon."

Connor growled, annoyed at the presumption, though he frowned when Haytham leaned in, further, and then to his shock lips sealed over his mouth, confident and sure, and as he froze up, utterly unsure of what to do, Haytham pressed against him, licking into his mouth; he tasted of whisky and that was _good_ , somehow, far more intoxicating than the liquor, even as Connor's stomach squirmed. When Haytham let up to breathe, Connor found himself having to try to stifle a whine, breathing hard, wide-eyed.

"What..."

"Haven't you kissed anyone before?" Trust Haytham's voice to be absolutely steady.

"No?" 

"Fucked anyone?" 

Connor fought down another whine; Haytham's tone had gone husky, velvet; the situation was _wrong_ , this was _Haytham_ , a man, his _father_ , and - he couldn't move. "Uh."

"This is a simple 'yes' or 'no' answer, Connor."

"No. Well," Connor interjected, annoyed when Haytham smirked again, "I haven't met anyone special."

"Whenever I feel that I have plumbed the depths of your naivety," Haytham mused out aloud, "You always hit me with a new broadside of incredulity."

Connor bared his teeth, about to snap a retort, only to muffle a yelp against Haytham's mouth as he was kissed again, more roughly this time, deeper, Haytham's roughened hands slipping up his arms to his cheeks, and instead of trying to struggle, he found himself clumsily trying to respond, pushing into it, awkwardly lifting his hands to Haytham's hips. He could feel the coiled strength in Haytham's body, the near stifling heat of it; dizzy, Connor found himself just holding on, allowing himself to enjoy it. This intimacy was novel to him, and tentatively, he tried to mimic it, in the slide of his mouth over Haytham's, catching a lower lip carefully with his teeth to suck. 

Haytham groaned, muffled and low, and nipped him; as Connor flinched, an apologetic kiss was pressed onto his mouth which wandered lower, over his jaw to his throat, and Connor found himself sucking in a high, startled breath as teeth closed lightly over his skin and worried at it. 

"Oh," he managed, his voice strangled to his ears, then Haytham chuckled, latched on to suck a bruise onto Connor's throat and he bucked, panting, hands clutched into Haytham's shirt. Then there was a delicious pressure over his groin, squeezing, and he pressed into it instinctively even as he belatedly realized that it was Haytham's hand and- "Father, this is wrong."

"Fine words from an assassin," Haytham drawled, licking a wet trail up to the shell of his ear and chuckling again when Connor shivered. "Many of those soldiers that you've killed had families."

Connor's retort was swallowed in another whine when Haytham pressed his palm up, more roughly this time, and whispered into his ear, "Do you want me to stop?"

Did he? Connor wasn't sure. This was good, so far, _good_ , and he liked the way Haytham was nuzzling over the shell of his ear, tasting skin with flicks of his tongue. He shook his head, hesitant, then hissed as Haytham's eyes went dark and he bit down again against his throat, lower, almost hard enough to break skin, as though marking him. Dimly, Connor was aware of his belt being loosened, tangling his fingers experimentally in Haytham's long, fine gray hair, then he yelped as Haytham tugged down his breeches with a jerk to his knees, drawing back briefly to spit on his palm as he freed himself with impatience. Haytham was hard, his cock flushed a deep red, and Connor stared, uncertain for a moment before he was pressed back against the wall with another rough kiss, and that - that was his _father's_ flesh, pressed against his, and then Haytham's elegant fingers closed around the both of them and _tugged_ and that was all Connor's rational mind could take for the night. 

It was rough and quick, at least for Connor; Haytham made an amused sound when Connor jerked and gasped against his mouth as he spilled, but it didn't take him long to follow suit, bracing himself against the wall as he breathed out shallowly. A final kiss was pressed over Connor's lips, then Connor hissed as Haytham blithely wiped his hand over the side of Connor's shirt. 

"The housekeeper has dealt with worse." Haytham's voice was even almost back to normal again, as he tucked himself back and straightened his clothes. 

"What... why did you-"

"Do you even know what your Creed is, boy?" Haytham had padded away, towards the exit to the cellar, though he paused at the doorway. " _Laa shay'a waqi'un moutlaq bale kouloun moumkine_. 'Nothing is true. Everything is permitted.' I understood that decades ago." 

Connor watched blankly as with that cryptic remark Haytham slipped away, and he rubbed his eyes, trying to slow his breathing. His world felt off-kilter, and he was disoriented all over again, the way he hadn't been since the day his village had burned.

4.0.

The gamble seemed to have paid off; Connor was noticeably more pliant, even though he had been skittish for days, like a startled animal. Haytham bided his time, associated with Connor only for training, and concentrating on regaining the Templars' slipping footholds in New Orleans. Connor's band of misfit apprentice Assassins were dangerous little creatures.

Eventually, as he had hoped, Connor made the next move, albeit as awkwardly as possible; a clumsy kiss pressed against his mouth after a training session, almost shy, Connor hunched and tense. It was a remarkable stroke of luck that the boy was a virgin, and Gods, what a seductive idea _that_ was - it didn't take long to have Connor writhing against him and the wall again, keening and clutching at his shoulders as he worked his slicked hand over their cocks. 

It took a further week for him to persuade Connor into bed, and the boy was stiff and tense all over again, up until Haytham put his mouth on him; on this manner of pleasure he was decidedly rusty, but it wasn't as though Connor had any bar with which to measure him against, and the boy found a quick completion with a hoarse cry and a buck. Haytham had sat back, satisfied, drawing himself out to take himself in hand, only to be pleasantly surprised as Connor grumbled and pulled him down to close his own hand over him and let him take his pleasure in the tight grip. The boy _was_ a quick learner.

Charles chafed at the bit, but public opinion was still strong. In time, Haytham knew, the moment chaos from the unstable new government started to spread, there would be another chance again.

V.

The vaguely unsettling feeling that he got whenever Haytham touched him was gone, replaced by a new and dangerous curiosity. Connor knew that he couldn't stay longer with Haytham than necessary: his people needed him, after all - but the siren call of Haytham's surety of touch and the dark promise of his smile was difficult to resist. It was easier when he thought less about who Haytham truly was to him - blood - and just let himself enjoy it. After all, it harmed no one.

He had always treated his body well, as the weapon that it was, but Connor had never particularly thought of it as an instrument for pleasure. He'd known of it, objectively, passed by pleasure houses in Boston and New York alike, but it had always seemed irrelevant. And then last night Haytham had pressed a slick finger _within_ him even as he had taken him down his throat and that had been... new. Curious. Connor sat down on his blanket in his room and palmed himself, feeling himself stir a little at the memory. Haytham had cancelled today's training, apparently to attend to something or other in the city, leaving Connor to his own devices. New York's Assassin apprentices were all out on tasks, which meant that he'd taken a desultory walk around the dock and returned to the estate, bored. 

With another glance at the closed door, Connor unlaced his breeches and pulled them down, bringing up his knees and leaning back against the bed. Saliva proved uncomfortable when he tried to press the first callused digit past his opening, and a bit of awkward fumbling in his pack brought out a bottle of gun oil. Connor turned the bottle over in his hands, a little guiltily, then curiosity got the better of him again and he slicked up a finger. This time, it was easier, pressing in, and strange at first, until he palmed himself hard and his body relaxed. Kicking off his breeches to spread his knees further, Connor pushed in another finger, wincing and taking in a deep breath, pressing deep to the knuckles. The sensation of being full was not... unpleasant, though it wasn't as good as Haytham's fingers, it was-

"Connor, get up," Haytham brusquely pushed open the door, his tone clipped, "We have to get to the... ah."

Connor flushed, but before he could pull his fingers out Haytham had kicked the door close and was kneeling before him, holding his hand in place with a tight grip over his wrist, and then he was being crushed close for a biting kiss, Haytham's tongue pushing demandingly into his mouth, _taking_ until Connor was moaning and writhing. 

"More," Connor demanded, when Haytham finally pulled back, his pupils blown with lust.

"You _are_ going to be the death of me," Haytham breathed, raking Connor with a greedy once-over. "Couldn't wait for me to get home?"

"I was just trying things," Connor muttered defensively. 

"And?"

"And what?"

"What did you think?" Haytham was mouthing over his neck again, distractingly. 

"It... it was not as good?"

"Mm," Haytham took in an unsteady breath, flicking his tongue over a healing bite scar on the junction of Connor's shoulder and neck. "I'll show you. Spread your fingers. No, like... yes, that's better. Now move them. In and out. Twist your... there." 

Connor bit down on a cry as his fingers brushed against something within him that sparked ecstasy through his blood, and as he panted, squeezing his cock, Haytham jerked his hand away, pinning it. "I want you to come from this," Haytham stroked his wrist, his smile lazy and hot, "From fingers pressed inside your arse."

"I can't," Connor gasped, then he groaned as he saw Haytham reach for the gun oil. 

"Let me try." 

The pace turned merciless quickly, with Haytham's fingers opening him up, thrusting against the spot of pleasure inside him, Haytham's mouth closed over his, and Connor bucked helplessly against his hand, clutching at the blanket, his throat giving voice to a hungry, near continuous whine that finally broke into a cry when Haytham buried three fingers deep to their knuckles and bit down over an ear. Dazed, trying to get his breathing back under control and slumped against the bed, Connor watched as Haytham drew himself out with a low oath, jerky and urgent, then he hissed as Connor wrapped his oil-slicked hand around him and squeezed. It took a few sharp pulls before Haytham was choking down a cry of his own, then he gingerly slumped down beside Connor on the bed, breathing hard.

Ignoring him for the moment, Connor wiped his hand on his already soiled shirt, then eyed the fluid that had caught over the back of his palm. Tentatively, he brought his palm up to his mouth for a taste, drew a face - bitter - then yelped when Haytham shoved him down on the blanket to kiss him roughly. 

"God," Haytham rasped harshly, when he pulled away, "You're a bloody devil."

Connor frowned at him, then decided not to bother arguing. "Where were we going again?"

"I'm too tired now." Haytham sat back against the bed, rubbing at his eyes with his clean hand. "And in any regard, I've forgotten. Bloody hell."

"Growing old, father."

"Shut up."

5.0.

He couldn't stop Connor from leaving on regrettable Assassin business now and then, but Haytham supposed it was a victory in itself that Connor always returned, and besides, by all reports he was now spending more time in New York than at his homestead.

Haytham had always found religious concepts of morality quaint, but he did feel some residual sense of guilt whenever he took Connor to bed, and it was a little worse on the night that Connor had spread his legs and put his hand on Haytham and asked - demanded - for more. It had faded the moment that he had tasted the sweet, tight heat of Connor's body, felt the powerful tension in the thighs bracketing his waist, watched Connor throw back his head and keen his name. That was _good_. Intoxicating.

And there was the danger of it. Haytham was losing his grip on logic, getting more attached than he could afford to, but at least he could comfort himself with the knowledge that Connor was more affected. The boy had originally disdained touch when Haytham had first met him, and now he sought it, initiated it even, sometimes without seemingly thinking about it - a lingering hand on Haytham's elbow, a touch at the small of his back. At least the boy knew to tone it down in public, but it wasn't... unpleasant. 

Still, Haytham knew that eventually they would drift apart - Connor's black and white view of the world would reject his levels of gray sooner or later. And now - now he would regret it far more than he should.

Or perhaps there was another way-

VI.

The problem with sharing Haytham's bed was that the man was merciless about turning him out of it in the morning, and Connor groaned and pulled a pillow over his face as Haytham prodded his shoulder. From the glimpse that he got, Haytham was already fully dressed, not a wrinkle out of place.

"Get up," Haytham instructed. "Something's arrived for you."

He found Haytham in the drawing room, having tea, and Haytham eyed his limp with a possessive gleam to his eyes before smoothing it into his usual calm. Scowling, Connor settled himself in a chair, if carefully, and folded his fingers over the arm rests. He hadn't had much sleep, what with Haytham's efforts last night to put him through the bed, and he ached all over. 

"What."

"Here." Haytham picked up a leather-bound scroll from the side table and tossed it to him. "For you."

Connor untied it, running his eyes over the elaborate script, then he tensed. "The deed to my _village_?"

"Keep reading, child." Haytham said mildly, finishing his tea. 

Taking a deep breath, Connor forced himself to read all the way to the end, then he looked up blankly. "Deeded to _me_?"

"I took the liberty of forging your signature. A very good forgery, I should add," Haytham noted, as though oblivious to Connor's open astonishment. "So the village and its surrounding hunting grounds are yours. Granted by Congress. Congratulations."

"But how? Why?"

"Some time ago, I asked you whether you could be content if your village was safe," Haytham drummed his fingers briefly against his thigh. "Well?"

"How much did this cost?"

"Quite a pretty penny, but I am not without my resources," Haytham shrugged. "Answer the question, Connor."

"I... don't know," Connor stumbled, then conscientiously added, gruffly, "Thank you." 

"Good! Now you can stop blundering around and ruining my plans."

"I never agreed to that," Connor scowled, "But I recognise my debts. I did not expect this," he added, slowly. "If I can repay you within reason I will."

"Ah, a lawyer's answer. You _are_ learning."

"I have a good teacher in the way of words," Connor pointed out dryly, even as he carefully rolled up the scroll again and set it on the side table, then he circled over to press his palms over Haytham's elbows, leaning in until he was an inch away from his lips. "And in the ways of other matters." 

"As pleasant a morning as instructing you further would prove to be," Haytham murmured, though Connor spotted a flicker of hunger in his heavy gaze, "I have business today that may prove dangerous, and I cannot afford the time."

"Dangerous?" Connor drew back, if reluctantly. 

"Thanks to you and your friends the Templar order has grown fractious in the colonies," Haytham said dryly, "And I am due to meet one of its scions out in the frontier. Such meetings are always either decidedly friendly, or decidedly hostile."

"I'll come with you."

"You are not the most popular of-"

"Neither are you, if you are concerned," Connor shot back, "And if you cannot even handle a group of mercenaries while scouting a camp, I doubt that you can handle a group of Templar officers."

"Don't be insolent," Haytham said blandly, though his lips twitched, as though Connor had passed some sort of test, and as Connor was mulling this over, Haytham uncurled to his feet. "Then let us be off. If you feel that you are in a well enough condition to handle potential blade work," he added, with a meaningful pat against Connor's arse that made him flinch. 

"Better than you would be, old man," Connor snapped back, heading back to his room to pick up his weapons. He would present the scroll to the Clan Mother on his return. And then - perhaps - with his people saved and disaster averted, he would be free to walk his own path.

6.0.

Haytham had been mildly surprised when Connor had returned from squirreling away the scroll to his village looking slightly abashed and muttering something about spirits wanting a green medallion, and then had been gratifyingly puppyish in his joy when on a whim Haytham had dug up the old Precursor trinket and tossed it to him. It had felt _right_ , somehow, to hand it over, and besides, the years had taught Haytham to give no truck to superstitions. No pretty trinkets had ever saved cities and conquered lands.

After that, Connor seemed calmer. The driving force of resentment and blind idealism behind him seemed to have blunted, and he seemed content to shuttle between his village, New York, and his homestead. Haytham concentrated on re-consolidating his hold on power and using Connor on carefully selected missions. As he had thought, with his fangs sharpened, the wolf pup was becoming very formidable indeed, and even Charles had stopped with his complaints, especially now that Connor had shown somewhat less interest in ending his life. 

Sometimes Haytham still wondered if it would have been easier to have arranged for his son's death, years ago before the situation became as complex as it was presently, but it seemed far more of an intellectual exercise now than any real option. 

And sometimes when they were alone, in bed or perched on a slate roof, somewhere high up in New York, watching Connor's Great Bear caught in its eternal chase across the night sky, Haytham felt that as imperfect as matters were now, he was content. Perhaps someday Connor would turn against him. Perhaps he wouldn't. Haytham learned to let go of his hunger, and felt better for it. 

Maybe that was what it meant to be free, and it had taken a wolf pup to show him the way.

**Author's Note:**

> ok let us now lie in the mud together guys
> 
> I wasn't sure how much money it took in those days to buy land, but my Connor was pretty much sitting on nearly $30,000 at end game (and that's after fully upgrading my ship and almost crafting everything in my arsenal). Seemed like a more practical solution to the problem.


End file.
